Objectifying Dean
by Bird2K
Summary: In the mood to imagine Dean doing something inexplicably sexy? Well then, let The Objectifying Dean Team help you out with these series of one shots!
1. Kitchen God

Kitchen God

**A/N:** These are a series of One Shots written and posted separately by the individuals of The Objectifying Dean Team as doesn't allow joint posts. Check out entries from lostatc, DeansBabyBird and our mysterious 4th author... well, you can't check hers out yet as she hasn't posted. Watch this space!

Kitchen God, by Bird2K

The kitchen feels bright and warm with the sunlight streaming through the window. The aromas of fresh coffee and bacon so strong you can almost taste them. The radio is playing, a faint murmur of music in the background, and someone is quietly singing along with the occasional line and then belting out the chorus in a deep, rich baritone. The room is welcoming to all your senses but especially your sight as you stand just inside the doorway, eyes caught and feet stilled by the vision before you.

In the center of the room stands Dean, narrow hips hypnotic in their subconscious sway to the music as he gazes out of the window. He is wearing a white t-shirt, taut across his broad shoulders, and worn jeans, hems frayed and brushing the tiled floor, tickling at his bare feet. Tucked into the crook of one elbow is a large glass bowl and he is beating the eggs inside it, you can see his arm muscles bunching and contracting under the tight t-shirt as his wrist rotates rhythmically. And you realize that even this action is in perfect sync with the music.

You know he is aware of your presence, has been since you stepped through the door, but he had remained in profile until now.

He turns so that the shaft of sunlight is behind him, and now he is backlit, surrounded by an ethereal glow. An angel brought to Earth to make you breakfast. As if reading your thoughts, he grins wickedly, dimples on display and cocks a brow in query. _Angelic, me?_ But his green eyes glitter like emeralds with a mischievous warmth and even if he isn't Heaven sent, you thank the Lord he's here.


	2. Unconscious

**A/N:** These are a series of One Shots written and posted separately by the individuals of The Objectifying Dean Team as ffnet doesn't allow joint posts. Check out entries from lostatc, Bird2K, DeansBabyBird and Katricrush.

Unconscious, by Bird2K

It's a glorious autumn day and, despite the slight mist, the air feels fresh and cool in your straining lungs as you jog through the woods. You can feel your heart thumping, pumping the blood around your body in time to the rhythmic pounding of your feet. Your iPod is set on shuffle and you grin in pleasure as the distinctive intro to 'Kashmir' plays. As you lightly jump over a log in your path, the beat of your heart and the music and your feet fall into sync and you feel good. You feel alive.

It is early morning and the few animals that stick around for the colder months are just emerging, snuffling through the thick layer of fallen leaves. A darting movement at the periphery of your vision catches your eye and your gaze flicks to the side. You don't see any further movement but instead glimpse a flash of blue, out of place among the brown and gold and red of the leafy carpet. You slow your pace and cautiously approach, pulling the iPod's buds from your ears.

As you get closer you can see the prone body of a man. Your gaze flits briefly over his still form, trying to work out why he is here and what happened. Finally you allow your eyes to rest on his face and, even beneath the smears of blood and dirt, you can see that he is a very handsome man. Full lips and long lashes, high cheekbones and a straight nose. He is almost pretty and you have a sudden urge to wipe away the grime to see if there are freckles underneath.

Shaking your head at such a random thought, you attempt to pull yourself together. This man is unconscious and clearly injured, and at no point in your first aid training was 'take the time to daydream,' ever mentioned.

You call out a soft, "Hey."

And then, slightly louder, "Hey. Are you alright?"

But there is no response.

You move even closer, dropping to your knees on the soft, damp ground and tentatively reach a hand toward his neck to feel for a pulse. You are surprised by the intensity of relief that hits you when you find one. Withdrawing your hand slowly, your fingers caress his strong jaw line and you tell yourself you're just checking his temperature. After all, he could have been lying here all night. But his skin is warm and you enjoy the light scratch of stubble under your palm.

Somewhat reluctantly, you remove your hand to place it on your lap as you look more carefully over his body for obvious injuries. His leather jacket is open and beneath it he's wearing a button-down shirt over a t-shirt, and both are cut and torn, bloody gashes visible through the holes. The wounds are still seeping slightly, further indication that he hasn't been here all that long. Because you can't assess his injuries with the clothing in the way, you pull at the holes in his shirts to rip them a little further, granting you a better look at the wounds beneath. Your hands move lightly, delicately, across his broad, firm chest as your fingers press just enough to feel the muscles and bones of his ribs under his smooth skin. You examine each of his ribs, gently following along the smooth curve of his ribcage, but nothing feels cracked or broken.

Your hands move higher, intending to examine his neck and head but you find it difficult to focus on the task at hand and you suddenly realize your hands have paused in midair and you're watching him. Shaking your head, you mentally berate yourself for losing your focus when someone is so helpless.

His head and neck seem unhurt, so you finally pull your hands back into your lap again, away from temptation, and continue your assessment visually. Relatively satisfied that the cuts on his chest are superficial, you turn your attention to the lower half of his body. Your eyes skim over his narrow hips and carry on down to his thighs. The denim here is also shredded, but as you peer more closely at the cuts beneath the material, you notice that they, too, seem shallow and already they've stopped bleeding. The skin of his thighs, the parts visible through the extensive rips in his jeans, is pale where the blood hasn't stained, as if it's never seen the sun. Taking in the leather jacket and biker boots, you would bet this man, whoever he is, doesn't do shorts, preferring to sweat like a real man in his jeans.

You are pulled from your internal debate over whether or not you can trust yourself enough to actually touch his thighs for an examination, by a low groan and your gaze is instantly drawn to his face. His eyes are moving beneath the delicate skin of his lids and, as you watch, the long lashes flutter slightly, as his lips twitch and part with a sigh. You lean over him, hand resting lightly over his heart so you feel, as well as hear, the second groan as it rumbles up through his chest. He mutters something, you can't be sure, but it sounds like "Sammy," and his hands come up, brushing against yours.

At that brief contact, a frown mars his brow and then his hands are moving, up along your arms to your shoulders, dislodging your earphones so they fall next to him unnoticed, as he reaches for you. His hands are gently testing and stroking, questing as they investigate you through touch alone, and you can feel the strength within them being held in check as his fingers do their job. Suddenly, his eyes fly open and you're caught, frozen, mesmerized. His pupils are blown wide but a clear ring of the brightest green you've ever seen surrounds them.

"You're not Sammy."

His voice is low, husky, and that one, simple statement is loaded with so much. He tenses, but then something else seems to grab his attention and he turns his head slightly to the side, towards your forgotten ear buds. You realize the song, though tinny from this distance, is unmistakably "Stairway To Heaven."

Gradually he relaxes, a smile spreading across his face as his eyes flutter closed again. His lips part and you lean further forward, just in time to hear him mutter, "Zepplin rules."

And then he is still once more, breathing even and his face peaceful.


	3. Storms Coming Pt 1 of 2

**A/N:** These are a series of One Shots written and posted separately by the individuals of The Objectifying Dean Team as ffnet doesn't allow joint posts. Check out entries from lostatc, Bird2K, DeansBabyBird and Katricrush.

Storms Coming, Pt 1/2 – The Promise of a Storm, by Bird2K

Sweltering heat for weeks and weeks, the kind where even lying still is a sweaty effort. Nearly 3 months of longing for an end to air so thick and sticky it's like moving through warm honey. Prayers and rain dances go unanswered, even the God's can't be bothered to work, as drained by the unrelenting humidity as the rest of us. Everyone, every_thing_ is still. Waiting for the weather to break and the heavens to open. The blessed relief of a summer storm.

And then you hear it, a rumble in the distance. You look out of the doorway of the wonderfully air-conditioned shop you had wandered into, more as an escape from the heat than any desire to purchase whatever is on the icily cool shelves you have been absently caressing. And even as you longingly search for any sign of rain clouds, you realise that the rumble isn't thunder. It is too constant, and travelling closer by the second. Finally it comes into view, black as a rain cloud maybe, but without the promise of refreshment. A sleek, metallic, muscle car drawing up to the curb outside the shop that you are sheltering within.

You watch as the lone occupant, a young man, gracefully unfolds himself from the seat and moves out into the midday sun. He straightens, slamming the door and rolling his broad shoulders, lifting the edges of his sweat soaked t-shirt and flapping in a vain attempt to achieve some cooling air circulation. You could have told him it was pointless, the air is far too heavy to move, it just hangs in cloying layers. But the action does have another benefit, allowing you a glimpse of bare skin, smooth and pale and lightly sprinkled with a trail of hair leading down from his navel to disappear beneath the waistband of his jeans. Your mouth goes dry, and you couldn't have made the comment to him even if you were close enough to speak. Besides, he seems to come to the same conclusion himself, letting go of his top and grimacing up at the unrelenting sun.

He stands for a moment, looking up and down the street as if debating which way to go. You have a clear view of him from your position, just inside the doorway, and you stare unabashedly as he bites at his full bottom lip, subconsciously mirroring the action yourself.

The more you watch him, the more you hope that he comes nearer, close enough for you to see if that t-shirt is as wetly translucent as it looks. Close enough to make out the color of his eyes. Close enough to count the freckles you just somehow know kiss his nose and cheeks. Disappointment floods you as he turns and walks away from your shop and you have to stop yourself from bolting out the door to stand in the middle of the sidewalk to stare after him. Bowlegged stride and something in the way he holds his arms loosely at his sides, reminds you of a cowboy as he makes his way down the dusty and deserted sidewalk. You half expect a tumbleweed to blow across his path in the non-existent breeze. There is something mesmerising about his gait and, again, you wish he had headed in your direction.

Still, as you focus in on his tight, denim-clad ass, you console yourself that this view ain't so bad, either.


	4. Storms Coming pt 2 of 2

**A/N:** These are a series of One Shots written and posted separately by the individuals of The Objectifying Dean Team as ffnet doesn't allow joint posts. Check out entries from lostatc, Bird2K, DeansBabyBird and Katricrush.

Storms Coming, Pt 2/2 - A Promise Fulfilled, by Bird2K

You are making your way back home, driving along the dusty stretch of blacktop, when you next hear a rumble and this time you know it is thunder. Storm's been building for the past hour and now the sky above you is almost black, practically bulging with the eagerly anticipated precipitation and you wonder what it's waiting for. Finally, the clouds can't hold it anymore, a bolt of lightening tears the sky and the huge raindrops are unleashed, slamming into the ground and violently ricocheting off the roof of you car. The sound is so loud it almost blocks out the thunder and visibility is a distant memory as your wiper blades fight a losing battle against the sheets of water. You slow down to a crawl, hunched over the steering wheel to get precious inches closer to the windshield, peering through the glass like a myopic octogenarian out on a Sunday drive. And that's when you see it.

The hulking black shadow of the vintage car is unmistakable, even in these conditions, and you slow even further as you attempt to work out why it is parked on the verge, stationary. You carefully pull around it, noticing that the hood is up and a familiar figure is bent underneath it, presumably doing something to the engine. Making a snap decision, you swing your own car into a U-turn, headlights illuminating the scene as you stop in front of the Chevy. You take a moment to watch the figure straighten and turn towards you, clothes clinging like a second skin, drenched as he his. His t-shirt is molded to the muscles of his broad shoulders and chest, thin material stretched tight and practically see-through, it's so wet. You glance around the insides of your own vehicle, looking for something to protect you from the heavy rain, but you've never liked umbrellas and so are unsurprised when the search comes up empty. Shrugging and mentally bracing yourself against the onslaught, you throw open your door and jump lightly out into the wet, landing with a muted splash onto the sodden ground.

By now the man is facing you full on, one hand raised, serving the dual purpose of sheltering his eyes against the driving rain and the glare of your headlights. You feel the weight of his suspicious glare and approach him cautiously, deliberately moving to the side of the light to afford him a better view of your non-threatening frame. He doesn't move as you get closer, posture not tense exactly, more poised ready to react if necessary, and you notice that the hand not protecting his eyes is holding a box wrench in a firm grip, angled as if in preparation to strike. It drops slightly as you draw near him and you smile tentatively. Up close, even in these conditions, he really is something to behold. A little over 6 ft, you'd guess, and well built. Muscles prominent, well-defined but not overly so, as if gained through manual labor, rather than hours of bench-pressing. His hair is plastered to his head by the rain that still runs off of it and you follow its flow down over his straight nose, the curve of his high cheekbones, and watch fascinated as it gathers in the divot of his bottom lip. It is as you are staring at his mouth that you realise his lips are moving, saying something that you missed, between the sounds of the driving rain and your sudden urge to lick the gathered water from his mouth.

You blink to clear your head and look up into bright green eyes, lit by curiosity and thickly fringed by the longest lashes you have ever seen. He blinks back, lashes shedding the gathered rain drops and you follow their trail back down his face to the lips you have just decided are your new favourite things in the whole world. As you watch they quirk up into a one sided grin.

"You alright, Miss?" And you hear him this time, wonder how you missed that voice before. Smooth and low as it rumbles up through his chest and there's a tickle down your spine, which you try and blame on a stray raindrop.

You clear your throat self-consciously, and smile again, "Funny, I was just gonna ask you the same thing." And you would be proud of how steady your voice is, if your traitorous gaze wasn't giving you away by refusing to move from his mouth. His grin broadens and you catch sight of straight, white teeth as he replies.

"Well thanks, but I think I'm pretty much done." He nods his dripping head towards the engine, before reaching up to close the hood. You step back slightly, too engrossed in watching the play of light against the shifting muscles of his back to pay attention to your footing and you stumble on the wet and uneven ground. Fast as the lightening that surrounds you, a strong arm shoots out and your elbow is engulfed by a callused palm and long fingers, righting you and holding you steady. Despite the wet, you feel the heat of that grip as it spreads up your arm and over your chest then down to pool in your belly. You gasp and your eyes fly up to meet teasing green, too stunned to try and break loose.

A sudden flash and almost immediate boom of thunder makes you both jump, and your arm is jerked from his grip. The loss of warmth hits you and you have to resist the urge to rub where his large hand had been. He has turned his back to you again to drop his wrench into the metal toolbox on the ground and, as he bends to lock the catches, you take the opportunity to pull yourself together and also check out the tight ass you'd only glimpsed from afar earlier. Some art is better viewed from a distance, but this perfectly sculpted piece deserves closer scrutiny, you decide, just as he rights himself and looks back at you, calling over his shoulder.

"I'll just put this back in the trunk." And he hoists the heavy looking toolbox as if it weighs nothing, an almost lazy bunching of his bicep the only indication of any strain. You just nod mutely and stand, mentally debating what to do next. In fact, you're so caught up in your thoughts you almost miss his next comment.

"Then, maybe we could go somewhere drier and I'll buy you a drink." And then he is back in front of you, knowing grin flashing his perfect white teeth, "You know, to thank you for stopping and all."

You grin back, "I know just the place." And it's like you've been nudged out of your stupor by a sudden bolt of energy. You wonder briefly if you have been struck by lightening, as an almost frenetic glow surrounds you. "Follow me." And you turn on your heel and practically skip back to your car.

Soaked through and squelching, you feel utterly refreshed.


	5. Dungaree Dreams

**A/N:** These are a series of One Shots written and posted separately by the individuals of The Objectifying Dean Team as ffnet doesn't allow joint posts. Check out entries from lostatc, Bird2K, DeansBabyBird and Katricrush.

Dungaree Daydream, by Bird2K

The day is hot and sunny and still. The sky cloudless and that really brilliant blue that almost hurts your eyes if you stare up at it for too long. There is a meadow, the grass is quite long and yellow in places where the rain is overdue. In the middle of this chartreuse expanse, there stands the beginnings of a wooden structure, just the barest skeleton of a barn rising up as a landmark on an otherwise flat horizon.

And Dean.

He has been out working since sun up, trying to get in the hard labor before the day got too hot. It is now mid-morning and he has been lifting and climbing and hammering solidly for 4 hours. He is sweating, and the wood dust and grime from his labors sticks to his slick skin. He pauses in his work to wipe a hand across his brow in an effort to stop the sweat from dripping into his eyes, but all it does is leave a dirty smear across his forehead.

He is dressed in denim dungarees and a tight white t-shirt. The sleeves are pulled so taut around the convex bulge of his biceps that the seams are in danger of ripping with every arm flex and stretch. The light cotton is clinging to his sweat soaked chest and back and is becoming uncomfortable. Restricting his movements and interfering with his natural grace as he pulls himself up onto the joists, it irritates him with its confinement. Lifting and hammering would go easier unrestrained and, finally, he decides that the risk of sunburn is worth the freedom of being shirtless. Casting a narrow eyed, wary look at the steadfastly shining sun, he unhooks the shoulder straps of his coveralls.

Crossing his arms in front of himself, Dean grasps the lower edges of his damp t-shirt just above each hip, and deftly pulls it up and over his head to be flung onto the ground. Broad shoulders and a well-defined chest are exposed, muscles moving stealthily beneath lightly browned skin, like tigers stalking their prey. This exquisite, muscular symmetry carries on all the way down to his flat stomach. More flesh is revealed as the loose waist of the denim coveralls, no longer supported by the straps, falls and catches on his hips, riding low and leaving a teasing glimpse of the sweat soaked band of his jockey shorts.

Dean bends to pick up a bottle of water, the movement pulling the formerly loose material tight across his firm, athletic backside. He stands upright again, shoulders back and stomach almost concave, as he removes the lid and raises the bottle to his lips, head tilting gradually further back as he eagerly drains the contents. Water slides down his throat in long, slow swallows, some escaping the sides of his mouth to run over his jaw and down the long arch of his neck, where it gathers in the dip of his clavicle to pool with his sweat.

Bottle drained, he throws it down on top of his discarded t-shirt and returns to work.


End file.
